Chapter Text
A/N – As in previous chapters, italics represent John's thoughts and memories. They aren't voiced aloud.
As John passed another endlessly dull week he found himself actually looking forward to his session with Ella. Stupid blog idea aside, he thought she was pretty good, and that she may even be able to help him. He stretched his aching leg. God, did he need some help. Even the stupid blog wasn't a bad suggestion, really, just not the right one for him. Such was the state of his life that this week's highlight had been getting a wrong number call from a chatty, daft old woman looking for Herbert. Hardly the stuff of internet legends.
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From the third session
John gave Ella a shy, polite half-smile when he entered the room and waited for her to be seated before sitting himself. As usual, he offered nothing but waited for her to start the session. It was only their third meeting but Ella could sense his growing frustration. She began to inwardly wondered whether he would bolt after the next session, the final mandatory meeting. No, she decided, John Watson would not bolt. He would simply disappear.
"How's your blog going?" she asked trying for a tone of lightness. John's stone mask remained unchanged.
"Ah, good. Very good," he lied after a beat while idly tracing the pattern on the arm of the chair again.
"You haven't written a word, have you?" she needed for him to be honest with her.
"You wrote 'still has trust issues'," he said flatly.
"And you read my writing upside down ... See what I mean?" she couldn't let him dodge this.
He cracked an attempted smile but despondency continued to radiate from him. She clasped her hands and captured his gaze.
"John, you're a soldier. It's going to take some time for you to adjust to civilian life. And keeping a blog about everything that happens to you will honestly help." Ella was surprised by how much she was hoping that he would trust her counsel.
John's expression remained flat and impassive as he delivered his frank reply.
"Nothing happens to me." There, he'd said it.
Ella exhaled slowly, schooling her face.
"OK, let's examine that. What are your expectations?" she asked. John wrinkled his brow in confusion and Ella clarified.
"For yourself, for your life now? What are you expecting to happen?"
John stared at her, brows still furrowed, for a long moment.
He remembers arriving at basic training like it was yesterday. From the moment he had arrived, he knew his and Dad's decision had been the right one. He was a soldier. He knew he could and would do whatever was asked of him. This went beyond Queen and Country. He was meant to do this, to dedicate himself to something better, something greater than the wants of one kid from Essex. The same feeling had settled in him while he was at Bart's. He fit there. He was there for a reason and his days had purpose.
His first posting abroad had been to Kosovo for three months in the summer of 1999. He had worked in a KFOR* medical tent treating local civilians and refugees, and although their needs sometimes seemed overwhelming he knew he was helping and making a difference. He also discovered he loved the excitement and element of danger that being in the middle of a war zone brought. That feeling of duty and purpose (and raw unabashed adrenal rush) accompanied him on all his postings, from Sierra Leone to Afghanistan to Iraq and back to Afghanistan. He was never an ideologue. That was for Parliament. He was there to serve and to do a job he loved.
"I don't have ... I mean, I don't know," he finally said with a slightly baffled note to his voice.
Ella waited silently willing for him to go on. Instead, John cleared his throat and sat straighter in his chair, reasserting his flat, dissociated mask. All the while, his left hand tightened its grip of the chair arm until his knuckles were almost white.
"I never planned ... for this," he said plainly in an even, calm voice.
Ella's response was at once kind and sincere, firm and challenging. Part of John's brain was distracted wondering how the hell she did that.
"I know, John. I know. But, that doesn't mean there isn't a new or different way forward for you."
Ella waited again but John gave no outward reaction so she pressed on.
"Have you considered joining an organization?" she asked. "Maybe veteran's organization or perhaps a social or civic group?" John looked slightly aghast. She smiled, reminding herself that John Watson was not accustomed to the ordinary, and amended her question. Challenge replaced empathy.
"Come now, John, you hardly seem a homebody. That's part of the problem now. You're bored. What did you do with yourself before you were sent abroad?"
"Well, I played rugby," John answered. "I was on a team, actually." He cracked a fleeting but genuine smile. Ella smiled broadly in return and gave him a 'there your go' gesture.
It was pouring rain in buckets. It had been all afternoon. The game was tied with less than 2 minutes to go and they were in range. If they could just set Stefan up for the drop goal, they'd win. Tom clapped him on the shoulder with a smile, "Ready, Army?" he asked. John flexed his bruised and bleeding knee, wiped the rain and mud from his face with an equally muddy hand, and nodded once before getting into position for the line out++. The referee signaled and the ball came sailing back in to play, John's team mates thrust him straight up in the air. He reached as high as he could, just managing to get his taped fingers on the ball, and tipped it toward Stefan. God, he loved this.
"I don't think I'm quite up to rugby now," John said quietly, rubbing his leg just above the knee.
"And those old rugby mates will only talk to you if you can join the scrum, will they?" Ella challenged again with the barest hint of exasperation in her voice.
"You need to try to reach out, John. Be proactive and open to trying new things." John nodded thoughtfully and was quiet for a long beat, his expression inscrutable.
"Maybe some dancing lessons?" he finally offered, sardonically. Ella laughed despite herself. She liked John Watson.
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That afternoon, John navigated to his blog's website prepared to spend another eternity staring at the blinking cursor in an empty post window. Instead, when he arrived at the page he saw that the hit counter now read (3) and that he had a comment. He clicked on the unread comment. It was from Bill Murray. He said that he was coming to London next month and invited John for a pint. John smiled then felt a pang of guilt. Bill had e-mailed him a number of times while he was at Queen Elizabeth's up in Birmingham but John had only ever sent the briefest of replies. Connections. With Ella's words ringing in his ears, John opened his e-mail app and sent a reply.
Bill had replied back within a few hours and they were set to meet in four weeks' time. Bill, who was living in Aberdeen again, asked how John was making out and said he had some news but wouldn't part with it. The next evening John clicked open his address book and stared at the small collection of names for fifteen minutes before sending a quick e-mail to Stefan from Blackheath saying he was back in London. He didn't elaborate as to why. By the next afternoon he had received responses from both Stefan and his old team captain, Tom, along with an invitation to meet with the lads at the usual place after their next home match. Not one, but two social engagements planned in the same week. Take that, Ella.
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A doctor and a soldier walked into a bar. He took a seat with his back to the wall and a view of the telly, and leaned his cane against the chair. The pub was called The Black Horse. John had discovered during his daily walks that this pub, some 10 minutes from his bedsit, was the closest establishment into which he would even consider entering. He couldn't bear another night shut in his horrid little flat so he decided to venture out for a pint and, maybe, to watch the match. The waitress wasn't his type but she was young and friendly. They chatted back and forth a bit as she took his order for whatever lager they had on tap and some chips. John smiled winningly at her when she brought his order and she blushed a little. He ended up having just the one pint as the game turned out to be a disappointment. The waitress called after him with a smile as he stood to leave. John wished her good night and, it being December 22nd, a Happy Christmas. He didn't see the pity cross her face as she watched his limping exit.
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He wasn't meeting with Ella again for two weeks, not until after the holidays. Despite having plans with Bill and the Blackheath lot, and his successful pub visit, John felt his sense of isolation and solitude growing day by endless day. Tis the season he supposed. Although lots of servicemen and women found being deployed over the holidays difficult, John never really minded. There was a certain camaraderie in holidays spent abroad that gave him a sense of belonging that spending all day with his difficult family never could match.
Harry called again the next day to ask if he would come over to her place for Christmas dinner. Against his resolve and better judgment he relented. That was how at 1:40 p.m. Christmas Day John found himself in the back of a cab that he could ill-afford with a bunch of flowers and strudel from the bakery. This would be the first time in six years that John had gone to Harry's on Christmas. The last time had been the Christmas after their mum had died. Harry had sworn off alcohol in the wake of the accident and was in a foul mood but Clara had been able to keep the day from being a total disaster. They had given him the Aran Island jumper that he wore today. It was still in good nick as it hadn't seen much wear over the last three and a half years.
Harry had a glass of wine in her hand, a large glass John noted, when she answered the door. She ushered him into what he thought of as Harry and Clara's well-appointed townhouse and introduced him to Sheila. John found himself wanting to dislike the woman on principle before she even opened her mouth. As it was, when she did open her mouth, she gave John more than ample reason to follow through on his first instinct. Three other couples, Barbara and Gail, Garrett and Lindsey, and Todd and Anna, arrived shortly after John. All wore their holiday best and John felt under dressed in his jeans and jumper. He made some polite small talk while they waited for dinner to be served. Wine was flowing freely, although he had just one glass. Mostly, he let the conversation float around him without joining in. Harry chided him for being a stick-in-the-mud. As dinner progressed and the wine bottles emptied the conversation became more and more raucous.
"Terry and Mitch were arrested, remember, after we'd got to Trafalgar Square**," Gail said with a snort of laughter. "Both got ASBOs or some silly thing, didn't they?"
"So what do you think, John, bloody futile, the whole bloody business, isn't it," Todd called abruptly turning to face John who was sitting at the opposite end of the table.
"I'm sorry, what?" John sputtered, ears flushing red. He had been surreptitiously watching Harry drain her third large glass of wine.
"Lighten up, Todd, my brother was born a patriot. Barbs, be a love and past the Merlot," Harry interceded.
"But he was there. He knows truth. People need to hear it." Todd jabbed the table forcefully with two fingers for emphasis.
John looked up and quickly scanned table. It was barely 4 pm and they were all at least half tanked. Anna and Gail were giggling about something. Todd was staring at him expectantly as was Lindsey. Harry, he knew, was being watchful of him. Well, as watchful as she could be while drinking. Barbara spoke expansively to the table as she handed the half-empty bottle of wine to Harry.
"When do think Brown will grow a pair and pull our boys ..."
"And girls!" Sheila chimed in slapping the table sharply.
"Right, and girls, out of there?" Barbara continued.
No one waited for an answer. Instead, everyone began talking all at once. John could not begin to follow any of it. He sat disconnected and alone at the crowded table. People were talking to him, at him, about him, around him, over him, and through him all without seeming to notice that he was actually there. He felt his anger rising. These people knew nothing. They understood nothing.
"Excuse me, Harry ..." he finally said. talking into a lull in the babble.
"I ... can't ... do this," he placed his napkin on the table and stood taking a small stutter step as he reached for his cane. The table quieted and watched as he began crossing the room. After an awkward pregnant pause Harry spoke up,
"Jesus, Johnny, doh'n be so bloody mel-o-dra-mat-ic..." she drawled before pausing to take a sip.
"Stay. Finish your dinner and have some pudding. This lot's nothing but a bunch of raving intellectual twats. Ignore them," she said teasingly trying to lighten the mood. "It's not like they're talking about you personally," she continued dismissively.
John whipped around to face his sister suddenly furious but words failed him. Instead, he glared at her, jaw clenched, left fist in a tight ball. In her inebriated state, he knew it was pointless to get angry or to argue with her. Instead, without further ado, John nodded once to the table, turned on his heel and headed wordlessly for the door.
"See, this the price they pay. Bloody waste, if you ask me," Todd said emphatically, as if John's departure was simply a talking point in his argument. John paused, straightening monetarily before putting on his coat. The last thing he heard before the door closed behind him was his drunken sister's voice,
"Yeah, well, nobody bloody asked you, Todd!"
The spell broken, the table erupted in laughter and Sheila rose to get another bottle of wine from the kitchen. Harry went to the front window. Peering around the corner of the curtain she watched John limp away. She emptied her glass. Todd was right, her maudlin, wine-soaked brain supplied. The war had ruined her brother.
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